


That Inch of Lacerated Skin

by voleuse



Series: Between Each Footfall [1]
Category: Battlestar Galactica
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-04-07
Updated: 2005-04-07
Packaged: 2017-10-04 12:21:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voleuse/pseuds/voleuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Repeat with me the punch line</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Inch of Lacerated Skin

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for the miniseries. Title and summary adapted from _I Say I Say I Say_ by Simon Armitage.

"Get down!"

She's shoving on his shoulders while he's still taking in her words, the bare impression of them, before the fury of sound and heat and dark engulfs them.

And everything

stops.

Gaius' entire existence becomes this: the concussive ringing of his ears, the raw abrasion of his skin, and complete, abject fear.

Slowly, or too quickly, his mind rockets back into his skin, and he begins to know more.

He isn't deaf, just deafened.

He isn't dead, and yet...

He smells blood.

Is it his own? It could be.

He can't breathe. The air is clogged, thick. Something is pressing against his chest.

Familiar.

He raises his hands, _he still has hands_, and touches. Hesitant. It's--

She's not breathing.

She's not

She

He tries to push her off, but his muscles disobey him. He takes a shaky breath, coughs, tries again.

Her body rolls limply off him.

He sits up. Opens his eyes. Sees her.

He screams.

*

 

When next he can think, he's across the room from the body, crouched next to what used to be the wall of his home.

His ribs hurt.

His ears are still ringing.

There's blood on his hands. From his hands. The air stings.

The body is a huddle of flesh and glass and cloth.

He looks away, withdraws into memory, recalling and rearranging the cascading effects of radiation poisoning. Is it too late for him? Can he still run?

He thinks, thinks back, estimates the distance of the blast. The sky is already dark; how long has it been?

He stands, turns his head from the body.

There's time for him, he thinks.

Another blast detonates on the horizon. Nearer the city proper?

He flinches, cowers from the flash, biting his lip.

He can still run.

He picks his way across the rubble of the floor, makes his way to the bedroom. He needs sturdier footwear. And a jacket.

It will be cold. He'll feel it soon.

As he shoves his feet into boots, tying the laces, he considers what else he might need.

There's another explosion. Closer.

There's no time.

He sees his briefcase, toppled sideways under his bed. Grabs it, almost marvels at its wholeness.

Outside, the shriek of plummeting aircraft.

He stumbles to the door, his feet sliding over loose debris. He catches a hand against the sofa, regains his balance.

And looks, directly, at the body on the floor.

Her face is turned up, and there's still a smile on her lips.

He vomits, messily, on the floor. Wipes his mouth on his sleeve, closes his eyes.

But he has no gods to entreat.

He leaves the door open behind him, and runs.


End file.
